Iran, Mike Pompeo dominate my father's last kaddish - opinion

Even the fictional character Tevye indecisively weighs issues. In one scene of the play, he listens to squabbling villagers expressing contradictory opinions and says to each, “He’s right!” A bystander asks how they could both be right, and Tevye replies, “You are also right!”

I raise this cultural trait because mourning is a very personal experience, and it should therefore not be surprising to learn that some Jews do not feel the obligation to fulfill the requirement of praying three times a day or to do so in the presence of a minyan.

But that is not how I felt over the past 11 months. Amid the challenges of the coronavirus, I felt deeply and passionately that it was my responsibility to say kaddish three times a day for my father without missing any prayer.

Even in normal times, it takes an effort to motivate oneself to go to services three times a day to say kaddish. In Orthodox neighborhoods it is normally easy to find a minyan. In 2020, however, the global pandemic turned organizing a minyan into a monumental challenge. Religious services were banned in some places, or the number of congregants was limited by the secular local or state authorities. If a synagogue was open, you often needed a reservation to attend and then had to wear a mask and have your temperature checked.

Consequently, my commitment to say kaddish three times a day forced me, more often than not, to organize my own minyanim. Thus was born my WhatsApp group which is long enough, now after 11 months, to perhaps be published as a book in its own right. In it I pleaded, begged, cajoled, pressured, inspired, berated and lovingly requested men from all over the United States to join me in my minyanim – mostly in New York and New Jersey – so that I would never miss a kaddish.

It was miraculous that at the end of the 11-month period of saying kaddish I had not missed a kaddish, and the stories I can tell of how I made some by the skin of my teeth are legend. The challenge sometimes felt absolutely overwhelming, and the pressure was, at times, almost too much to handle.

Which is why I wanted the last kaddish to be special. And given that the great mega-philanthropist Sheldon Adelson – who was a close friend to whom I was devoted – died three months ago, we decided to do a Torah celebration for my father and for Adelson.

So last week, on the last day of kaddish for my father at the end of my 11-month mourning period, I hosted the 70th secretary of state of the United States, Mike Pompeo, at one of the first outdoor Jewish events in New York City since the pandemic began.

My father loved Israel and it was therefore providential that, amazingly, the last day of kaddish actually fell on Israel’s 73rd Independence Day. We completed a Torah scroll in my father’s memory amid great joy and celebration for the Torah and for Israel.

Secretary Pompeo, an incredible mensch – who gave an impassioned speech about the majesty of Israel, the danger to the Jewish state of a new Iran deal, and the legacy of Adelson’s incomparable philanthropy – insisted on standing behind each person signing a letter in the Torah out of deep respect for the Torah and for Israel.

The ceremony was followed by our last minyan wherein I said kaddish for my father. It was incredibly moving. Pompeo’s warnings about “the evil” Iranian regime and its genocidal intent against Israel made world news, and he proved himself, once again, to be one of the greatest American friends Israel has ever had in high office. And it was sadly all too applicable, given that my father was born in Iran at a time when the government was a friend of Israel, but he could not, toward the end of his life, visit Iran, because of the dangers it poses to any American or Jewish tourists.

WHEN MY father died, a leading Orthodox rabbi told me I had no obligation to say kaddish, that it isn’t that important compared to studying Torah in somebody’s name, given the pandemic. The word “Mishna” has the same Hebrew letters as “neshama,” which means soul, so he argued that learning Mishna for a parent is more important than kaddish.

I was really irritated. I didn’t tell him that, but I felt like, “Who are you to tell me how to remember my father? Kaddish is the most revered of all Jewish prayers for the dead. I’m going to say it for my father. Nothing, God willing, will stop me.”

From the day of my father’s burial nearly a year ago, my entire life revolved around the kaddish. Poor, unsuspecting friends, whose only crime was to have made my acquaintance, became my targets. The text and phone calls began. “Can you come to a minyan tomorrow morning? This evening?”

In the beginning, many obliged. As time went on, I became a nudnik. The minyan became more challenging. Sympathy and goodwill eroded. People saw it was me calling and hit “Ignore.” I went to an engagement party and, in the middle, I needed to pull out nine men. I would go to an outdoor restaurant with my family, and by the end of the evening I was going table to table to get nine men to say the evening prayer and kaddish. Eventually, even friends don’t want to be around you, for fear of being asked to be the 10th man at the minyan.

It may seem hard to believe that a rabbi living in a Jewish neighborhood in New Jersey and working in the heart of New York City would have difficulty finding a minyan, but that is one of the many adverse consequences of trying to carry on during a pandemic.

Except for just a few days when there was a torrential downpour, most of the hundreds of prayer services I arranged were outdoors, with everyone masked and socially distant. We all wanted to stay safe.

I organized minyanim with family in our home and with friends and acquaintances in the courtyard of our office in Manhattan or friends’ backyards. I pulled random Jews off the street to daven on sidewalks. I prayed in grocery stores and restaurants. I prayed outside of kosher butcher shops and a few times even in gas stations. We were praying in the freezing cold, snow, ice, wind and rain. To paraphrase the postal service motto: Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night would keep me from saying kaddish. But I could not blame others who did not want to endure those conditions on my behalf.

One of the greatest miracles of our minyan – aside from its very existence – was that, to our knowledge, thank God, not one person got sick. We had no coronavirus outbreaks.

Perhaps the most extraordinary kaddish I recited was on the White House lawn in September. I had been invited to the signing ceremony of the Abraham Accords, the agreement in which the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain established diplomatic relations with Israel. Not surprisingly, many Jews were invited to the event, so I was able to organize a minyan to say kaddish that was broadcast around the world and a picture of which was published in many newspapers.

Even that day highlighted the challenge I’ve been facing to say kaddish. When the ceremony in Washington ended, I planned to go back home to New Jersey, but it would have taken several hours, and the pressure would have been on to make it in time for Maariv. We realized it would be too stressful, so we decided to stay in Washington for the night. It was one more example of how my life has changed and is dictated by my religious obligation.

I faced a similar problem when I flew to see my mother in Florida. I had to calibrate my flight time to coincide with the prayer services. I can’t leave too early or I miss the morning prayers. If I take an afternoon flight, I might miss the afternoon service. A night flight might overlap with evening services. It is nonstop anxiety from the time you get to the airport until you arrive at your destination. If a flight is delayed, you sit on the plane wanting to rip your beard out.

When I could, I would round up a minyan in the airport to ensure I did not miss a kaddish. Then, when I got to my mother’s house in Miami, I’d grab nine people every chance I could for a minyan – outside her house; on the beach; in restaurants. I just hoped they would understand and not get upset.

My year of kaddish is over. I feel a chasm in my soul, not to mention in my daily routine.

As for the joke about one Jew and two shuls, I feel not laughter but gratitude. The more shuls we have, the more children will be able to recite the ancient haunting words of the kaddish for their beloved parents.

May my father’s memory be an eternal blessing.